


The Spaces In Between

by elfin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 16:10:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19212925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfin/pseuds/elfin
Summary: After it’s over, the world utterly failing to end, everyone sort of wonders off.





	The Spaces In Between

They argue at the bandstand. Crowley, a little desperately, tells Aziraphale they could go away together, hope in his eyes. 

But the angel can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses in the dark. He says it’s over, and if Crowley’s hellish heart breaks a little, always he’s careful not to show it. 

 

He hides in the dark in the cinema, but Hastur finds him, tears the head off an animated bunny and tells Crowley to stay put. It’s the very last thing Crowley’s going to do. He drives like… well, like a demon, to Soho, almost runs over a fair few pedestrians, sliding the Bentley to a stop when he sees Aziraphale on the pavement.

He apologises, pleads, threats to leave but the angel’s a stubborn thing and refuses to go with him. Even after his dramatic declaration that he’s off to the stars and won’t ever think about him ever again, even when he takes off in the Bentley like a bat out of hell, he knows he isn’t going to Alpha Centauri. Not without his best friend.

 

He sets the trap for Hastur, thank Aziraphale for the ultimate weapon. He kills Ligur but not a single drop of the stuff hits The Unspeakable One and a minute later Crowley’s being chased through the ether, exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. 

Trapping Hastur in voice mail is a moment of genius, leaving him with just Aziraphale’s recorded voice for company. There are worse things, he thinks. And another thought pops into his head, hot on its heels, one that makes him feel a little uneasy and a lot sad. 

He heads back to Soho. The bookshop’s on fire. Aziraphale is gone. Something dies inside him while he stands, screaming, inside the inferno. He’s knocked to his ass by the fire crew’s water hose blowing out the window, and just sits there, the flames licking at him, realising that for the first time ever, he’s utterly and completely alone.

 

All ideas of leaving wiped from his mind, he sits in a pub, drinks bottle after bottle of Talisker and tries to drown his sorrows, but they’re proving to be resilient buggers. 

When he first sees Aziraphale, he thinks he’s hallucinating. He’s all transparent and… wobbly, and Crowley has had an awful lot to drink. If he’s being honest with himself, he half-thinks he’s conjured Aziraphale by wishful thinking, right up to the moment the angel suggests they share a body. That’s not one his imagination would have come up with, even marinaded in alcohol and swimming with grief.

And then there’s the book. He’s so proud of himself for doing something right for a change, he holds it out in triumph. _Look, angel! Look! I’ve got the book!_

The details are in there, just as he’d said in the voice mail Crowley had left Hastur with. Tadfield. Military Airbase. Hadn’t Aziraphale said the village felt loved? He sobers up and leaves the pub, hearing the landlord shout after him that he has to pay for the whisky. He calls back that he hasn’t touched a single drop. 

 

Arrival at the airbase is emotional. Seeing Aziraphale (even if he isn’t his usual self), losing the Bentley; the highest high and the lowest low.

This time it’s Aziraphale threatening to leave. Well, not leave exactly, but never to speak to him again. He looks like he means it; he’s got the flaming sword and a very angry expression on his face. So Crowley does something. 

It takes a lot out of a demon to stop time. 

After it’s over, the world utterly failing to end, everyone sort of wonders off. 

Adam and the Them in Adam’s Dad’s car - his real Dad. It sounds like they’re all in trouble, particularly Adam. Personally, Crowley thinks the boy deserves some kind of reward after what he’s done, but what does he know? He’s not a parent. 

Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell and Madame Tracey leave - very slowly - on her motor-thingy. Crowley thinks his hair dryer probably has more power, but he wouldn’t know about that either - it’s not as if he’s ever used it. It was very expensive. 

Crowley and Aziraphale walk back to the village. It takes over an hour. They’re on their sixth bottle of red by the time they drop onto the bench at the side of the road. They’re drunk and there’s… physical contact; a shoulder bump to say, _‘I’m so glad you’re back,‘_ , a brush of arms, _‘I’m sorry I left you.’_ Silent apologies and equally silent endearments.

Crowley reminds Aziraphale about the fate of the bookshop and the heartbroken look on the angel’s face shatters a little more of the demon’s heart. He offers his place up as an alternative, and despite an unconvincing protest about ‘his side’ not liking it, Aziraphale surprises him and accepts the invitation. Maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise, after all, he’s got nowhere else to go.

When they get on the bus, they sit side by side, something they’ve never done on the Number 19. There’s not really enough room for the two of them, with Crowley’s habitual splay of limbs and bus seats being just slightly too small for a normal human butt; Crowley had been proud of the design at the time. So there’s more accidental touching, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to care and Crowley finds he really doesn’t mind.

 

The angel looks utterly lost, standing In Crowley’s bleak and seldom-used kitchen. In an attempt to distract him, Crowley asks, ‘What do you think Agnus Nutter’s final prophecy means?’

Aziraphale takes the scrap of scorched paper from his pocket and places it on the counter. ‘It must be about us. I mean, it came to me, and we are certainly in trouble with our respective si-… people.’

Crowley moves to stand with his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder, reading the old English text. He thinks about Ligur, still a molten mess on the floor of his office, and an obscure reference pops into his head. 

‘Do you know what happens to a demon if he steps under a falling bucket of Holy water?’ Aziraphale glances sideways at him, eyes wide in understanding. 

‘The same thing that happens to an angel if he’s subjected to Hellfire?’

‘I think I know what Agnus Nutter is suggesting. But you’re not going to like it.’

 

They swap back, and it takes a moment or two to settle into himself. It was nice, being Aziraphale, but he’s had to keep thoughts of his best friend in the slimy grasp of Hell out of his mind and seeing him alive, well, and back in his body. It’s all he can do not to do something utterly un-demonic. 

Aziraphale doesn’t seem any worse off for his sojourn down under. He tells Crowley that he asked Beelzebub for a rubber duck, and made Michael miracle him up a towel, which has obviously made his century. The laughter releases the tension in him and he can feel himself finally unwinding. Time to leave the garden, but they’re leaving it together.

‘Can I tempt you to lunch?’

They’ve dined at The Ritz many times before, but this time feels different, more intimate. Something’s changed between them, but after six thousand years, Crowley’s used to things changing . He’s happy just to let it settle, become the norm. They drink champagne, raise a toast to the world, and afterwards they walk to Soho and Crowley watches Aziraphale get misty-eyed as he walks through the shop fingertips walking over titles and spines.

 

Life around them returns to normal quickly enough. Human beings are resilient creatures. The world didn’t end, therefore it spins on and they act accordingly, like the whole almost-apocalypse never happened. But it did. Or rather, didn’t. Crowley and Aziraphale were there, centre stage. It takes them longer to return to their particular definition of normal. For weeks, Aziraphale won’t leave the bookshop, and at the start, that’s okay with Crowley because he catnaps between mugs of coffee and bottles of wine and he’s happy to be in Aziraphale’s company. But after a month or so he gets antsy. 

Aziraphale tells him to go out, to go for a drive and enjoy the Bentley. He wants the angel to go with him, but he politely declines, assuring Crowley he’ll be just ‘tickety-boo’. Eventually, reluctantly, Crowley goes on his own. He drives without really knowing where he’s going, circles through Oxford just to annoy the tourists and the bus drivers, and finds himself in Tadfield late in the afternoon.

It’s a beautiful sunset, of course. He wonders at what the perfect weather is doing to the house prices. If Adam didn’t dial it back a bit, sooner rather than later some of the residents are going to clock on to how much their homes are worth and start selling to rich idiots from the city. Or maybe Adam just wouldn’t let that happen. The villagers seem contented enough in their tiny English haven. He sits on a bench in the park and watches nature showing off until dusk cools the air and he starts to feel like he should be somewhere else. London. Soho. A little bookshop.

Getting back in the car, he drives at just shy of a tonne and gets back to London in record time for that particular journey, parking in his usual spot outside the shop. (The man who was parked there just moments before had been enjoying a drink a wine bar along the road when he’d suddenly remembered he’d left the gas hob on in his apartment. Which is all electric, as it turns out, and not even connected to mains gas.)

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale sounds so relieved to see him, he starts to think he maybe shouldn’t have gone out at all. ‘I’m glad you’re back.’ The angel is pulling on his coat. ‘Can I be so wily as to tempt to you dinner?’

That’s not an invitation Crowley’s about to refuse. ‘Absolutely you can. Where are we going?’

Aziraphale smiles. ‘I’ve made reservations.’

 

There’s one niggle, one crinkle in reality, that Crowley can’t seem to iron out. The thing that he’d noticed that afternoon at The Ritz, the thing - whatever it is - that had changed between he and Aziraphale refused to settle, to become the norm.

Aziraphale’s made reservations - which in itself is highly unusual - at one of the best restaurants in London. He makes Crowley change his clothes before they enter, so by the time he steps through the door his shirt is black silk, his suit tailored. They’re early, by design, and they’re shown to the bar and served champagne cocktails. It’s a warm, intimate space. Aziraphale has chosen this place in particular, for a reason and Crowley itches to know what it is. 

The waitress brings a small selection of amuse bouche; little cheese muffins, tomato tarts and mushroom pate on brioche. Aziraphale daintily picks up a muffin between his index finger and thumb and pops it into his mouth. He practically melts, eyes closing. 

‘Heavenly,’ he murmurs after swallowing. Crowley sips his cocktail and enjoys the sight of his angel out and about again, enjoying the things he loves most. ’My dear, may I ask you something?’

He nods, ‘Of course,’ and waits expectantly for the reason behind this particular dinner to be revealed.

‘Why are there posters in Hell saying, ‘don’t lick the walls’?’

It takes him by surprise, it’s not the question he was expecting, so much so that he laughs, a soft bark of delight. 

‘It gets hot down there, demons get… thirsty.’

‘Isn’t there water?’

‘Not that you’d want to drink.’

He looks mildly horrified. ’It’s preferable to lick the walls?’

‘No, it’s preferable not to. Hell is literally the basement of the universe. Imagine what’s in the air, on the walls.’

Aziraphale makes a face. ‘Actually, I’d rather not imagine it before dinner, if you don’t mind.’

Crowley smiles. ‘You did ask.’

Conversation continues in that vein throughout a simply perfect evening. The food, the wine, the table that lends them privacy and excellent service. By the time they leave the restaurant - after Aziraphale leaves a staggering tip on top of the sizeable bill - Crowley’s grinning like a demonic loon. He’s so happy that he takes a risk and slides his arm through Aziraphale’s, feels the angel tense then relax. 

They walk like that, arm in arm, back to Soho. It’s a way but it’s a warm night and people give them a wide birth, even if they don’t know why exactly they’re crossing busy London roads to avoid the man in black and his… companion.

Aziraphale slides his arm from Crowley’s in order to take his keys from his coat pocket, at which point Crowley look at him pointedly as says, ‘I do hope I’m not going too fast for you, angel.’ Aziraphale responds by elbowing him in the ribs and pretending to shut the door in his face. He’s kidding, of course, holding it open for Crowley to step inside.

‘Thank you, for tonight. It was exquisite. And not cheap.’ Aziraphale waves it away like it was nothing as he takes off his coat and hangs it neatly from the hook on the hat stand. ‘Oh, come on. You made reservations, actual reservations, which means you picked up the telephone, called the place and spoke to someone. When was the last time you did that?’

He’s never done it. Neither of them have. If they want to eat somewhere, that is where they eat, even if they’ve only made the decision a couple of minutes before arriving. The most preparation Crowley has ever done to get a table in a restaurant was twenty years ago, for The Fat Duck in Bray. Waiting lists for a table there are months, years long. But a couple who’d booked their table six months in advance suddenly found themselves unexpectedly (involved in a car accident) winning a short weekend break, at the most luxurious hotel in Scotland that Aziraphale could find, all expenses charged to Crowley’s credit card. (‘A car accident? Really, Crowley, the food here can’t be that good.’)

‘I knew you’d like it. The reviews have excellent.’

‘I did like it.’ He pauses for effect. ‘I loved it, in fact.’ He lets the word sink in, catches the moment that it hits home in the drop of Aziraphale’s shoulders. The angel turns slowly.

‘You did?’

‘Yes.’ He puts a lot of emphasis on the next two words. ‘Very much.’

It’s not wasted on Aziraphale. ’You… do?’

Clever angel. ‘I do. I have done for… for a very long time.’

‘Oh. Crowley.’

Neither of them seem to know what to do next. They gaze at one another across the shop for what feels like an inordinate length of time before Aziraphale finally comes towards him. 

‘You didn’t leave, even though you thought it was the end.’

‘No point, if you wouldn’t come with me. I even apologised! Do you know how many times in my entire existence I’ve apologised? Once. To you. I didn’t even know what I was apologising for.’

‘The irony is, dear fellow, it should have been me apologising to you. I’m the one who said it was over between us. I’m the one who said I didn’t like you when you know full well, we both do, that the opposite is true.’

He’s stopped a foot away. Close enough to reach out and touch, but Crowley doesn’t for the moment, just lets the metaphorical dust settle. 

‘I don’t know how to be me without you.’

Aziraphale blinks a tear from his eye and takes another step, reaches his arms around Crowley’s neck and hugs him. For a second, he’s no idea what to do. He’s never been hugged by anything, not ever. 

‘Hands,’ Aziraphale murmurs.

‘I’m not doing anything with them,’ Crowley hisses in response.

‘That’s the problem, dear boy.’

Oh. Oh! He gets it now, puts his hands experimentally on the angel’s back, one somewhere between his shoulder blades, the other lower down. It’s nice. 

‘I won’t leave you. Not ever. I’ll always find you, whatever happens.’

Deep within him something shifts, and finally the change in their relationship finds balance and settles. 

 

They go back out to St James Park for a picnic a couple of days later. They commandeer the bandstand, spread a rug in the centre of it and lay out enough food to feed all of the ducks, their families, and even their distant relations in Canada. 

There’s wine too, obviously. 

The sun shines. 

‘I’m sorry I made you wait so long for your picnic,’ Aziraphale tells Crowley, and he raises his glass to him. 

‘A toast, then, to many more.’

After they’ve eaten their fill, Crowley lies across the rug and Aziraphale chooses to shamelessly use him as a pillow.

‘What do you think would happen now, if we were to be discorporated?’ the angel asks after some time in which the only sound has been birdsong. 

Crowley considers it as if it isn’t something that’s he’s thought about over the last couple of months.

‘I think… I think they’d send us straight back, new bodies and all. Because I don’t think they’d want us hanging around. Gabriel seemed… scared of you.’

‘Beelzebub thought you might start a riot.’

Crowley chuckles. ‘You should have wiped them all out.’

‘It crossed my mind, as I was lazing in a bath of what’s effectively sulphuric acid down there. A bit risky, I thought, on their part.’

‘It’s what I would have done.’

‘You’d have melted into goo, my love,’ Aziraphale points out, not very considerately in Crowley’s opinion.

‘Thank you, for that image.’

‘Sorry.’ He reaches back to pat Crowley’s leg, being the only part of him he can touch without having to move too much. Choosing not to make anything more of it, Crowley reaches for the grapes and pops a couple into his mouth. Aziraphale makes a ‘me too’ noise and he puts one between the angel’s lips, fingers lingering for a moment. ‘We should work out what to do now, I suppose.’

‘Fed up of running a bookshop, are you?’

‘No, but… I’d like to travel, see more of the world we helped save. It’s been a while since I left England for any length of time.’

Crowley settles his fingers gently in Aziraphale’s hair. ‘I’d miss you.’

‘Why? You’d be coming with me, of course!’

‘Would I?’

Aziraphale turns on to his front, leans on his elbows and glares at Crowley with a smile playing over his lips. ‘Come with me. It’ll be fun. I’d like to start in Italy, see Venice before it sinks, visit ancient Rome, shop in Florence.’

‘I’d like to shop in Milan.’

‘Naturally.’

‘Can we go to the Vatican?’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you? You might not be able to resist…’

 

And so they make plans for their entwined futures, in the place where, once, Crowley invited Aziraphale to go away with him and Aziraphale insisted there was no where to go.


End file.
